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Ch. 6: Stars on the Lake
(Return to Contents: Arheled) ' Chapter Six ' ' Stars on the Lake ' The ice that had formed like a skin upon the lake grew thicker as the cold continued. Forest checked it anxiously. Third Bay was always last to freeze properly, and Second Bay where he was, usually wasn’t safe before January. First Bay, north of him toward Winsted, had ice fishers on it already. There the lake opened in a great round head with two arms, the Resha Beach cove and Sandy Cove on the east, and at the farthest point north was the double spillway crossed by Lake Street, and the boat launch and beach. The early snow had ruined the ice as far as skating was concerned, but it could be walked on. When he heard the first snowmobiles on First Bay a couple days before Christmas, Forest could hardly wait for school to finish so that he could go out on it. It turned out the ice between Summer Rock and his island was still broken and open, the Narrows being subject to heaves and surges, but closer in to shore north of the island it seemed to be over three inches. Jubilantly he relayed Mom, who was watching anxiously from the window, the good news, and she finally said he could go. Snow lay deep on the ice, but here and there it had blown or melted clear and he could see the deep blackness of clear ice. He followed the snowmobile tracks. After all, if it hadn’t split under them it wouldn’t under him. He came to several active holes, all with lines in them and colored flags attached so the fisher could see if any of them bobbed. A solitary man sat on a wooden crate beside a metal bucket, out of which smoke issued and occasionally flames. He held his hands over this to warm them now and again, and the smoke of his pipe mixed with that of his bucket. He was bundled up in furs and a fur cap covered his head. “How thick is it?” Forest asked. “Oh, about three down your end, Forest, but more like six or eight farther north. The Long Lake is unquiet, even when he is left in peace, and seldom does all of him freeze before middle winter.” “Um…do I know you?” stammered Forest. The fisherman smiled. “Of course you do. You’re just used to seeing me in brown leather.” A sudden jolt of pure joy flowed into Forest. “Oh, it’s you!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I get in as much time as I may,” answered the man in brown. “Most of the time I have to cut firewood. You wouldn’t believe how much wood it takes to keep one room habitable! My chimney is really going to be fun this spring. But I banked the logs well enough, and they should keep the fire alive while I’m gone.” “So you live by here?” By the lake, '' he had meant. “No, not exactly.” the man answered. “Although many of the cottages and cabins here are so like mine they almost make me homesick. Not much, as there is a lot to do; Christmas Eve is tomorrow, you know!” “Oh yeah.” Forest grinned happily. “So tell me,” said the man in brown, growing serious, “what exactly is your, ah, persuasion, on Santa Claus? You among the number of those who stay awake at midnight?” “That’s kid stuff.” said Forest “You know Santa doesn’t exist.” The man in brown chuckled. “There are more important things this Christmas to keep watch for, son of the trees. Especially someone with your eyes. It will not come this Christmas, but what you will see at midnight, ah even I do know. It is a dangerous time, and a blessed one. Be watchful!” Forest ducked his head. The man in brown unscrewed a thermos and poured into the cup-like cap a steaming brown beverage. “Here, would you like some chocolate?” he said. “I brewed it just this morning.” “Um, sure.” said Forest. He gulped down the thick creamy mixture. “Wow. I’ve never tasted any that good. Where do you buy it from?” “A place called Merriweather Farm, point of fact. Nobody else makes a better mix.” smiled the man. “We should have some decent snow just after Christmas, if the weather holds. Have you made any snowmen?” “Nah.” shrugged Forest. “It’s never packing.” “A pity.” the man sighed. “I see so few imaginative snowmen these days. Calvin and Hobbes sparked some brilliant ones, but children grow old and tire so quickly of building, and even old masters only cobble one or two standards a winter. And the new children build so seldom. Will any, I wonder, arrive at the Graves at all this year, or for the first time in the history of the Bended World will they wait in vain?” “The Bended World?” said Forest. “You know very well what I mean, Forest.” the man in brown replied sternly. “You and I both know the scientists are wrong.” “They have all that math.” “Ah, math.” sighed the other. “Numbers, Values, Coordinates. Spacetime and quantative mass, singularity, velocity and inertia, extrapolated forwards and backwards in time and in motion until the very concept of reality is forgotten to them and all sight of the truth lost, and I must turn from them in despair and speak into the poets and the writers, to bring out from them as fiction the true story of Creation, and relate to men as fantasy what they once called reality. But so changed are the heavens from the way that they began, that all trace of truth is lost to those who only use their instruments.” “But what changed them?” said Forest. The eyes of his companion were weary, distant, as if oppressed with memory. “It is so vast,” he murmered. “The things that must be told, they are as huge as the sky and your mouth just cannot chew them. Be patient, Forest. I must grow you further. You must see these things by little and little, or you will not see at all, even one so keen of eye as you.” “I think I understand.” said Forest. “Oh, '' understand, no, no, child, I would never expect that of you. Even I do not understand it, not entirely. I doubt there is any being, even He who was once foremost of might and majesty, capable of comprehending the entirety of Creation. We must seek only to encompass the little province of reality over which we have been assigned, for no more is expected of us.” “Who was He? Is he the rider of—“ “Hsh!” the man hissed, lifting a gloved finger. Forest started. “We do not speak of him unless we must. The Door is open. I fear it can never be closed, not now. He knows I have been calling. I do not think he can find all of you, but he will hunt, and he is very good at hunting.” “Why does he hunt?” “Because he hates.” Forest did not ask any more. Just the answers he had gotten were making him feel both cold and scared at the same time. If the one who slew the Trees was loose, he did not want him to find them. “Do not fear, Forest.” said the man in brown. “He is not yet able to hunt as he would wish.” “Who are the rest of us?” The eyes of the man in brown filled his. Slowly he began to sing, to that strange mournfully haunting tune that he had murmered once before, and the words he sang made Forest feel as if his feet were frozen to the ice. “You do not know of the peril ‘mid which we stand, '' ''You do not know of the dangers of this land, '' ''Roads that are made by no mortal being’s hand, '' ''Paths leading nowhere but down.” '' On the last note a howling wind roared up the lake, up from the hills of the south. Snow devils wailed before it. With twangs and groans the ice protested as it came, and Forest felt the stress cracks shift underneath him. He bent, shielding his face with both hands from the stinging sheet of snow. When he let them down and the strange wind had passed, snarling away among the hills north of Winsted, he saw he was alone on the ice, as if the man in brown had blown away along with the snow. “Dad, what is Midnight Mass?” said Bell. “Mass?” said Hunter Light. “That’s something the Catholics do. In fact they’re so lazy they don’t even do it at midnight any more—they have it at 10:30!” “Aww.” Grumbled Bell. “It would be so cool to be in church at midnight and actually see Santa show up.” “Aw, come on, honey, you’re getting too old for Santa.” “Hey, just because most parents do the filling up doesn’t mean there’s no Santa.” Bell protested archly. She sort of half-believed in Santa, in the sense of “Wouldn’t it be interesting if he was real”, but not the same way as she believed in God, or in trees. Or in Forest’s peculiar dreams. Sort of the way she believed in a really good story, only more real. “Anyway,” she went on, “Pastor Miller over at the Methodists is holding a tryout midnight service, just as an experiment. Please can we go, Daddy?” “Oh, all right, I’ll make sure I get enough sleep.” her dad grumbled. “I suppose your friend Brooke wants to sleep in and can’t drive you?” “She isn’t sure she’ll make it, but she said she’ll try.” said Bell. “You’d better rest up tonight, young lady. No watching ‘Christmas Carol’ at 10:00!” “Dad!” It had only been a whole year ago when she’d woken him up by putting on the movie without checking the time. He rumpled her hair and plodded into the other room where he sat heavily down. Bell looked at him with concern: he’d been coming in from work all tired out a lot lately. Christmas Eve Day just went by too slowly. Bell took a nap after dark at her dad’s orders, and actually did drop briefly off. It felt so weird and exciting to be getting up and dressing in the middle of the night and then going out in the cold darkness to the car. Her breath smoked until the heater got going. She loved night drives; the inside of the car was so dark and mysterious, the green and red lights on dashboard and radio, the weird flicker of streetlights and oncoming car-lights. They got to the church a little late; midnight showed exactly on the clock in the little brick ambulance place across the street by Mad River, on the corner of Lake. It had a small tower and gabled eaves. Dad pulled over opposite the privet hedge. All the spaces on both sides of the street were full. “You hurry on in while I find a space, honey.” he said as she shut the car door behind her. But Bell didn’t hurry on in. The cold clear air, still and motionless, the hard sad stars so far above, held her fastened, gazing, wondering. She so seldom was out on a winter night. How strange the stars look, she thought, and the church up against them—it looks like a castle, just like mine, only mine is more so. An embattlement, a wall of castles, curving from west to east, curving north at one end and north at the other, as if holding the north against something from the sea. Faintly she heard a melodious peal, then closer ones, until down the street and then overhead the church bells sounded in clanging rings. It was midnight. Bell’s eyes turned as if drawn, from the dark tower against the stars to the privet hedge at her left, and the two-foot-high finger of stone at its’ end. In the orange streetlights she could only faintly see the writing. Grooves showed here and there, but the grooves looked different. She walked over in front of it and peered closer. As if by some change in the light the lettering grew clear and visible, one word above another on the narrow stone. She stared, hardly able to believe her eyes. For what was written now was no longer what it had been. Temple Fell 2 m. Closed till MMXVII. Forest came suddenly awake. A quick glance at his alarm told him why. The time was a few minutes shy of midnight. Midnight of Christmas Eve. He had gone to bed fully dressed, so all he needed to do was put on hat, gloves, scarf and coat and hurry downstairs to slip on his boots. A look at the dining room clock showed both hands resting on the twelve. He opened the back door and slipped outside. At first he thought the cottages across the Narrows had all turned on their floodlights. But looking around showed that he was wrong. The cottages on every side, far as eye could see, had all gone dark. Their porch lights were quenched. Even the streetlights were out. He turned, half afraid, towards the lights upon the ice. Wavering forms and figures of fire, cold fire, silver flameless fire and blue-white heatless fire, shifted and whirled upon the glass-like floor. The snow that had been there was gone. Enchanted the boy moved forward until he stood under the oak, and though it was the same the dock was not there, or the pine trees, or even the house Forest knew. He tore his gaze away from the dancing forms of light and cast his eyes about the island. House and cars and bridge were gone, and ancient oaks just like the one he stood under, ringed the isle, and rough-boled chestnuts with a few great leaves still upon them buried tangled roots in a pavement of lovely little plants with white and dark-green banded leaves and pale berries at their crowns; pinkish, and red as well as white. He turned again to the ancient lake, on the ice of which the stars still were dancing like swirling whips of graceful flame. He had never seen so beautiful a sight, and the tears fell and froze upon his face unheeded in the bitter air. The lake was filled from end to end with whirling light, and the skies above seemed an even roof of ink, so great the glow of the gathered stars. He heard strange shivering laughter like falling glass, and eerie tingling voices like ice that formed of frozen light were singing eerie chants and melodies not meant for mortal ears, and Forest saw the great dark pines and mighty hemlocks lining the hills, the houseless hills, all lit blue and silver-white; and there was anger in those trees. There was a ripple. That was all Forest could ever compare it to. It was as if the ice and earth and trees, as if the very foundations of the hills, had shifted, as if a ripple went through their very natures and made their solidity for an instant as insubstantial as air, a ripple through matter and through time. The stars stopped their dancing and a great cry went up, in which although it was in some unfamiliar language he could make out one word, '' Wendthoay, chanted over and over again. What it meant he could not tell, but it went through him and through him like a bolt of silver ice, and then he was aware of a new figure upon the lake. Unlike the others this being glowed neither white nor silver but a pure and ancient blue, and he moved among them like a king of the earth, and the stars bowed to him as he passed. Forest could not blink his eyes, the tears had frozen them open, and moving his hand he wiped furiously at both his eyes. The snowy dull ice that had been there before met his gaze as his vision cleared again. The orange stars of streetlights and the blue-white stars of porch floodlamps gleamed on the shores and formed faint streaks of light across the snowy ice. The stars were not upon the ice, they were in the air, and house and pines were around him, and no wintergreen remained on Wintergreen Island. Forest could not move. He stood like a rock, like a snowman, unmoving, unloving. Dull misery prickled through him, keener every second as the pain of loss mounted. Tears dripped from his eyes and froze unnoticed on his scarf and skin. The agony of waking from his dreams was nothing compared to this, to seeing the dreams with your own waking eyes and losing them again. Jags of torment lanced like lightning through his soul. He shook with its’ violence. He hungered to die. He was tearing apart. Could any seeing, could any vision, be worth the pain of losing it? Two hands of flame seized the lightnings and shattered them asunder. “Forest.” said the Man in Brown. The pain ebbed and eased as Forest sagged in the man’s grasp. Carefully he was borne off the bad ice he had been stumbling toward and laid out upon the dock. The air around them warmed as if they were near a stove, and snow began to drip off the rocks. Forest began at last to weep. The Man in Brown held him closely, held him with a father’s strength as the boy wept away the last dregs of his torment. At last the sobs became sniffles and dried up. “Forest, I am sorry.” whispered the Man in Brown. “I never expected you would see…so much. I would never have put you through that. I am sorry I told you to watch.” “D-don’t be.” sniffled Forest. He pushed away and blew his nose over the side of the dock. “ ‘S not your fault.” “To see the stars as they once danced is a sight few can bear and come through.” the man said. “Sometimes the few who saw it would go insane. Most often they would simply die. Starstruck, they were called. But they were not actually here this night, Forest; what came to you, I suspect, was the memory the Long Lake holds of those ancient times, which not grinding ice nor breaking flood has sufficed to block away.” “Please, sir,” said Forest, “can I…can I go?” “Yes, and sleep well and dreamless tonight, son of the trees.” said the man in brown, placing one rough warm hand on Forest’s head. “The memory be undimmed, the pain come no more, however much you see. Paint it in all its’ glory. I am to blame, Forest. I sent you out unguarded. To walk into time is perilous at best.” “Thank you.” Forest murmered. He saw his bed before him and sank into it already half asleep. Then peaceful darkness claimed him. “Hey, sleepypie.” Bell said into the phone. “Get your butt out of bed.” “Such language from a Christian girl!” Brooke mocked. “A Merry Christmas to you, too.” “Yeah, well you slept in last night and missed the show. Guess what, Brooke. This is not funny. The creepiest thing happened at midnight.” “Ok, serious face installed. Spill it.” “You know that milestone you fell over? You know how it said So many miles to Hartford, so many to Albany?” “Yeah, I think it was 26 and 67, or something. So?” Bell’s voice got so low and shaky Brooke had to ask her to repeat it. “The writing suddenly got really clear, and it wasn’t the same writing.” “Whaa…?” “Brooke, please don’t say anything. It was scary. It said, Temple Fell 2 miles, Closed till—''and then there was a buncha letters.” “Roman numerals? I hope you memorized them!” “Of course, do you think I could forget something like that?? It was…oh, let me see…two M’s…an X…then a V and a couple I’s. Isn’t V like 5?” “Yeah, but the M’s…I can’t remember what they stood for. Oh, this is annoying. Say, do you suppose that explains the rhyme? ''When did they close it, ''you know?” “I don’t know when they closed it! Just when it opens. If those letters are a date.” “Well, I don’t see what else they could be.” “I wish we could find that kid Forest.” said Bell. “He slipped off before I even remembered to get his number. Your fault, you know, getting me started on girl talk.” “His last name’s Lake. Have you tried the phone book?” “There’s like five Lakes, serious. Do you even know his parents’ names?” “Hey,” said Brooke, “I just remembered. Julian and Deli live next door to him, and they’re on W. Wakefield.” “That narrows it down,” said Bell, dragging the phone with her while she fetched the yellow NW Corner phone book. She flipped quickly to Lake. “Here it is!” she crowed. “Want me to dial it?” “It’s Christmas Day, you’ll like not get anyone in.” said Brooke. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Hey, you taking me to church tonight? I went to yours, you can come to mine.” “Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow’s Sunday, you know.” “Hey, I got an idea! Why don’t we go check out that other Baptist church? You know, the one the rhyme calls 1st Church.” “I think that one has…hmm. It’s like 9:30 now. Why don’t I come and….no, that won’t do, my folks are having…Rats. It’s so darn busy this time of year. I don’t think we’ll get to investigate the other churches until after New Year’s, Bell.” “Why don’t I try that number and see if it ''is Forest, then.” said Bell. “Go ahead. Call me back real quick, cause I gotta start getting ready.” Bell hung up on Brooke and dialed the local number quickly. All at once she felt really nervous. What if Forest didn’t remember her? What if he got tongue-tied again? A woman’s voice answered. “Hello-o?” “Um,” said Bell. Her throat got all tight. “Um, yeah, is Forest there?” There was silence for several seconds. “''Who??” “Um, did I get the wrong number or something?” The woman laughed. “No, no, sweetie, my son is named Forest, it’s just…he’s such a shy boy and talks so little, I didn’t think he had friends. This is about the first call he’s ever gotten. Is this Julian?” “Um, no, my name’s Bell. Bell Light.” The woman’s voice grew suddenly strident and shrill, almost panicked. “Did he put you up to this?! How did you get this number?? You can tell him I had quite enough of his games and he can see me face to face if he has anything to say!” “Ma’am? No, I…what…?” Bell stammered, but the angry slam on the other end of the line was replaced by the buzz of the busy signal. “She knows me.” Bell muttered. “She knew my name. That was just super-freaky. What is going ''on around here?” But Brooke was able to shed no more light on it than Bell had. Forest was still playing quite happily with the Matchbox cars Uncle Chris had given him when Mrs. Lake got the call. Hearing his name he looked up, but Mrs. Lake was still talking and hadn’t called for him. With a strange feeling he realized the call concerned him. When Mom, out of the blue, started screaming into the phone and slammed it down, Forest bolted into the kitchen in time to see her face. It shocked him badly. She didn’t look like a grown-up. She looked like a little girl. A little girl who was in a tantrum. “That was for me.” He didn’t know how he had actually managed to say what he was thinking. “It was not!” his mother cried, in that odd, hysterical voice. He hadn’t heard that voice since she fought with Dad. “It was some….! The nerve of it! How dare he send her to….!” “Who was it?” said Forest, staring at her harder. “It-it doesn’t matter! Why do you think it has anything to do with you? He was just trying to--!” “''Mom!” roared Forest. The shock of hearing him, of all people, shout, actually reduced her to silence. ''“Who was it?!” “Oh, go to your room! Now! I don’t have to answer to you. I don’t have to answer to anyone! Do you hear me?” she screamed. Forest fled. Somehow he knew she wasn’t screaming at him, but at whoever had hurt her, whom she thought had just called. There was only one such person Forest knew about. “Dad.” he said to himself. He slammed the door. “She heard from Dad.” He flopped facedown on the bed. Maybe Dad had called to just say Hi. Maybe he had meant to wish Forest a Merry Christmas. But Mom had gone ballistic and ruined any chance of that forever. “Dad didn’t leave.” Forest realized slowly. “Mom drove him out.” So Mom had been to blame. But why? What did she think Dad had done to her? Slowly as the thoughts churned one over the other in his mind, the memory of last night, of the terrible loveliness he could never represent even with the finest paints and pencils, began to surface. It calmed him. Remembering with a sudden smile the new paint kit his aunt had sent, he hurried downstairs and got it, glancing anxiously at Mom’s closed door. He clattered back upstairs and began to draw. This painting was for others. This painting he would show to Mom. If he could capture even a shard of that tremendous sight, it would make her happy again. It might even make her bring Dad back. The holidays passed quickly enough. Snow came, just as the man in brown had predicted, a minor blizzard of 13 inches on the day or two after Christmas. Forest noticed it in a detached sort of way; he had finished the frame of ancient oaks and island rocks and was at last in position to begin on the stars. Dancing spirals of human-shaped light that sparkled and sprang like sun on new snow. Snowmobiles rampaged up and down First Bay, but none were stupid enough to enter the Narrows. Just as New Year’s arrived, the weather turned abruptly warmer. The new deep snow began to melt. Forest found himself getting restless again, until all at once he threw down his pencil and headed out over the ice. Slush squashed pleasantly about his boots, deep nice slush, and ice fishers speckled the ice. One rumbled by on an ATV but as Forest didn’t make eye contact he wasn’t noticed. Farther up he spotted a pair of girls strolling in his direction and altered course to avoid them: he wasn’t in the mood to pass the time of day. When he glanced their way again he was startled to observe they had altered course and were about to intercept him. Lowering his head and wishing he’d brought his hat he trudged resignedly onward. “I thought it was you.” said a soft tart voice he recognized. “Forest, right?” He nodded dumbly. Bell smiled. She was an inch shorter than him, while the girl with her was taller, with yellow hair and surprisingly pale blue eyes, startling in her face. She smiled too. “You remember us?” she said. “Bell and Brooke.” he said. Bell nodded. “You walked out so fast we didn’t have time to trade numbers. We’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but your mom totally flipped when I told her my name. Brooke was suggesting we just mosey over to the island and knock on the door, and that’s when we saw you leaving it. What’s grabbing your mom, anyway?” “I don’t know.” said Forest. “I thought Dad had called.” “And why wo…oh. Divorced. I get it. I guess the name Light doesn’t go over well with her, does it? No matter. We gotta talk, Forest. You see anything at midnight? Christmas Eve?” “She’s been going on and on about something she claims happened then.” Brooke explained. “It kind of creeped me out, and we wanted your input.” “I saw the stars.” said Forest. “The stars?” said Bell blankly. “What have they got to do with the Road?” “I’m painting it.” said Forest. “You’ll see it then. It’s not finished. What was it you saw?” “There’s an old milestone outside the Methodist church, see, and normally it says, Hartford 26 miles, Albany 67 miles, something like that. Well, they had a service at midnight, and I was outside just before I went in and I looked down at that stone, and the writing suddenly got really clear to see, cause you know normally you have to look really close even in daylight to see it. And it didn’t say what’s usually carved there.” She paused impressively. “It said, Temple Fell 2 miles. Closed till MM—''um—XV—II.'' That was it.” “Forest, are you all right?” said Brook. Forest didn’t answer. His eyes had become huge and fierce, both concentrated and frightened. “Things are coming together.” he muttered. “Bell, who told you that rhyme about the churches?” “A…sort of an old guy, well, no not old exactly but his eyes are old, sort of blue with amber at the middle. He always wears this old brown leather coat.” “And smells like smoke.” said Brooke. “I know him.” said Forest. “The man in brown. He told me many things. So he’s called you as well? Are you of the five?” “I think we are.” said Bell. “How’d you get here, walk?” “Uh-uh, I drove her.” said Brooke. “She’s from Burrville.” “Let’s get to your car.” said Forest. “We’ve got to get over to Gilbert High.” “Why? What’s over…” Bell was saying, but Brooke took a long glance at the set face of Forest and said, “The stone bridge.” Forest nodded tersely. It was a long trudge through the slush up to Second Narrows and then across First Bay and he remained silent all during it, except to answer Bell’s repeated questions by saying “You’ll see.” Brooke had parked at the boat launch, and Forest got in the back while Bell sat up front. Brooke put on a CD of Christmas carols and soon the two girls were singing heartily along. Forest smiled, humming under his breath along with them. He seldom dared sing; it made him feel horribly conspicuous. They were halfway through “Good King Wenceslaus” when they reached the bus drive beside the brook under Gilbert. Brooke parked in the road. It was Christmas break and so there were no busses, and the residents along the road had plenty of room to get by. Hopping the guardrail the three made their way cautiously down into the brook. As all of them wore waterproofs against the slush, they ignored the icy stepping stones and waded under the arch. Forest scanned the rough mortar patches and grey stones with a sinking heart. He found the inscription, however, despite his fears, and the girls bent close to read it. “Let all who enter enter well.” '' said Forest. “I still don’t get it.” protested Brooke. “Is Temple Fell just a misspell, or is it a village, or what?” Bell and Forest gave her a pitying look. “I’ve run across ‘fell’ before.” said Forest. “It usually means ‘mountain. Like, '' In places deep, where dark things sleep '' '' In hollow halls beneath the fells.” '' '' ''“I know that one!” exclaimed Brooke. “Far over the misty mountains old…” “To dungeons deep and caverns cold…” finished Bell. “Yeah. '' The Hobbit. That’s where I read it.” “And in James Herriot.” said Forest. “Only there ‘fell’ meant the big rolling mountains of Yorkshire. This Fell, That Fell—like we say Case Mt. or Haystack Mt.” “So Temple Fell is a—mountain.” Brooke said slowly. “A mountain 2 miles from the Methodist church.” “Drat this snow.” said Forest. “It’s too soggy to hike in.” “Oh, I’m sure it’ll freeze up good and hard once this thaw ends.” said Bell brightly. “That’s right, always look on the bright side, Miss Light.” “Yeah, but what I don’t know is how we’re ever going to find this place.” Bell went on. “I mean, I suppose we could measure out on a town map which places are 2 miles from the church and then get up high and look around…” “Maybe we should wait.” said Forest. “Maybe we should ask the man in brown.” Brooke shrugged. “What with my job and all, yeah, winter exploring doesn’t seem such a good idea.” “Meantime if anybody runs into our old friend Brown, make sure you remember to ask him about Temple Fell.” said Brooke. “Let’s get back to my car. I have to drop you off, Forest, and then Bell and I need to do some shopping.” “Maybe you can come in and meet my mom.” said Forest. Bell laughed and shook her head. “And have her flip out again at the mention of my name?” she said tartly. “Your mom’s probably pretty nice, but no thanks.” Travel Lane skipped a little as she headed down the drive to check the mail. She couldn’t help herself. The air was balmy and smelled of damp snow and wet bark and pine needles. The sky overhead was a pure gorgeous blue. Everything was strong and bright and clear. The poind, its’ thick ice carefully shovelled free of snow, looked lonely without the skaters she’d had over every weekend. The surface looked soft and mushy under the inch or two of meltwater. She hoped the cold weather returned soon, or the ice would be unsafe. On impulse she headed off the driveway and along the trampled path following the raised bank. The swampy area looked so different in the snow, even in melting snow. She stood by the canvas tent with the propane heater in it where skaters could warm up and rest before heading back outside, and laughed aloud at a blue jay that was scolding her. “It is good to hear laughter here.” Travel jumped. “Oh! You startled me. Where’d you come from?...and do I even know you?” she added slowly. A tall sturdy man of indefinable age had seemingly stepped from nowhere onto the shore path. His dark hair, cropped tolerably short, showed streaks of grey. The brown leather coat he wore was open, revealing a thin shirt of stained plaid flannel. His face was lean and unshaven and rough, but with a quiet sort of dignity far down inside such as she’d seen in old men. He had strange blue eyes. “We met outside St. James, if you recall.” he said. “Oh! That’s right. You asked about the missing statue. You also said you weren’t a Catholic.” The man chuckled and rubbed one hand over his rough chin. “I must say, I like what you’ve done with the place since I was last here. I’m not even sure if this pond was here then. Yep,” looking around, “the Lanes have done well. Perhaps they have done too well.” “Yeah, my dad put in this driveway and rebuilt the old house for Grandmother Lane, and our house next to it is brand-new.” Travel said. The man in brown nodded. He looked around, rocking on his heels. His brown corduroy pants were streaked with wood ash about the knees. He had great leather hiking boots. “You have a lot of winterberry, I see.” “Is that what that is?” exclaimed Travel. The swampy ground behind the berm was grown with clusters of ancient twisted bushes, countless thin vertical stems between them, grey-green of stem with horizontal whiteish markings, alternating up the stem. The twigs were incredibly kinky. A few had sparse red berries. “Yes, that is winterberry.” the man said sadly. “Planted as a sign of power to hold back the ancient darkness, they no longer bear fruit and are bereft of efficacy. Too much shade,” he said, squinting up at the tall young red maples growing thickly among the winterberry. “What good is winterberry against…whatever?” He smiled. “Intelligent questions at last! I had expected better, but unlike him I will accept what is before me.” “What are you talking about?” “You are the only one I did not call.” said the man in brown. “With you I had to be content with whatever Lane heir was around when I arrived. The others I could call, and replace if they did not answer.” “Are you, like, from some ancient secret society or something that…” She trailed away, feeling foolish under the humerous look he was giving her. “The barber shaved the mason, as I suppose, as I suppose, cut off his nose and popped it in a basin.” he said gravely. “That would be a pretty messy basin.” she answered dubiously. “Ha ha ha! Very good poetry, Travel! Why, entire songs could be built from out of that messy basin.” She laughed despite herself. “Ronnie was telling me all about how Middle-earth might have been ancient Europe, and you know the funny thing was, I know it’s crazy and all that but while we were talking it actually seemed like it was possible, like the Lord of the Rings actually happened. What do you think?” “You wish to know what I'' think?” the man exclaimed. “Ah, that is a strange and ungrantable thing! All that I think could be poured into your mind like water and yet when you were drowning in it you would still not know the half of what I think. But if you want to know what ''is, why that is a horse of a different color.” “All right, then did it happen?” With a twinkle in his eye the man in brown, instead of answering, started to sing in a rollicking, half-tragic tune: “The man in brown '' ''He went to town '' ''Upon a summer noon-day '' '' '' ''The witch in white '' ''She had a fright '' ''When she saw the man in brown there. '' '' '' ''She said ‘Alackaday! '' ''Have you come to play? '' ''I have no games for you, sir! '' '' '' ''For the Door in Night '' ''Has let in a wight '' ''And I don’t know what to do, sir!’ '' '' '' ''‘Why, my bad maid, '' ''You must be paid, '' ''For it came at your own calling! '' '' '' ''So take her, old wight, '' ''And get out of my sight '' ''For the Road it is a-coming!’ '' '' '' ''She uttered a scream '' ''As she fell in the stream '' ''Where the Barrow-wight was rising '' '' '' ''Like a shroud of night '' ''She was et by that wight '' ''And he licked his lips and smiled. '' '' '' ''‘Why, old Arheled '' ''We thought you were dead '' ''We’ve found out you aren’t '' ''and we’ll stand on your head!’ ” '' “That’s so randomly cruel.” said Travel. “Why would he just hand her over like that?” “Oh, perhaps it would have been more tasteful if he had burned her at the stake?! What did you expect him to do, let her go?” “She’s just an old woman.” '' “Old woman, old woman, old woman, quoth I…” “Hey, I was raised to respect my elders!” she retorted. “That assumes that they are worthy of your respect.” the man in brown answered. “No witch is worthy of any respect. Your grandmother, on the other hand, is worthy of much more respect than she receives. Aye, even your father, in his own way. But in most cases you cannot know whether your elders deserve or do not deserve, and so you err on the bright side and show them all respect.” “Why did he pay her with death when she asked for help?” “She did not ask.” the other answered. “She called. And when she got more than she bargained for, did she repent? Did she reject? Or did she run around whining for stronger magic to lay the monster she called up?” “But that’s so unfair.” “The ways of fair are not what you would think.” “Then what are they?” “Higher than the houses, and higher than the trees, lesser than the mouses, whatever could it be?” “I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Travel, but you didn’t answer my question.” “And you haven’t answered mine.” he replied, his odd eyes twinkling. “But yours is nonsense!” “Nonsense is sometimes sense and sometimes esnesnon. What you must do when faced with nonsense is to look around in it until you strip off the esnesnon.” “But that just brings me back to nonsense.” “Nonsense is not always senseless, especially when it joins its’ hands with riddles.” he said. “What is unintelligible may have its’ own meaning elsewhere and seen in other lights.” “My name is kinda like that.” she muttered. “Tell me, what are you here for, anyway?” “Primarily for the pleasure of your conversation,” the man laughed. “And to look at the old place again. It changes so much, each time I come, and yet each time is in many ways the same. I am not altogether disappointed in you, Miss Lane. You have the bond that is essential for those whom I must call; for you delight and wonder, and you look for what is unseen. Well, I’ll not keep you, lass. A Merry Christmas.” “And a happy New Year.” said Travel. She turned toward the tent, but then looked back, about to say something. Words died on her lips. The bank was empty, and only a sparkling fall of fine snow met her gaze. “Isn’t it a little warm for powdery snow?” she frowned. She was still frowning over the odd episode as she headed back up the driveway with the mail. Grandmother Lane was out on her porch beating rugs—she had taken advantage of the thaw to hurriedly clean her house—and she paused long enough to take her mail. “Grandmother, when was the pond made?” she said. “The pond?” the old woman frowned. “I don’t really know….I always remember a pond of some sort, but I think my father made it deeper and wider like it is today…that would have to have been when I was little. Maybe in the 40s…I was born 1930.” Travel’s eyes widened. “What exactly is winterberry? And does it have any power?” she said quickly. Grandmother Lane gave her a sharp look. “Winterberry is a deciduous holly, of the ilex family,” she answered. “As such it has the virtues of holly, which was rumored to be efficacious against witches and to have virtue against the powers of darkness. Who spoke with you?” “Um…why do you ask?” “You’re not usually interested in such things, child. And why were you surprised when I told you about the pond?” “It was the mysterious man from St. James.” Travel sighed. “He was down by the pond.” “And you didn’t invite him up?” the old woman shrilled. “He was right here and you didn’t take him to see me??” “We…I kinda…we were talking about weird things and then he just went off.” Travel said. The old woman listened sharply as Travel related the bizarre conversation. When she heard the nonsense rhyme she burst out laughing. “Oh, Travel, what have you been learning in these schools?!” she spluttered. “You thought that nonsense! Oh gracious. I thought I had taught you better. It’s a child’s riddle, a very simple one, which every girl knew in my days. Can’t you guess the answer?” “I’m afraid not. Is it a cloud?” “No!” Grandmother Lane cackled. “I must admit, that ‘lesser than the mouses’ line is new to me. But the answer’s a star!” “A star.” Travel repeated. “But the rest of it…does any of it make sense?” “Grandmother Lane nodded. “It does to me.” she answered. “I’m not sure yet who exactly he is, or if he is whom I think he is; but he is certainly older than he looks, and he seems to know what the voice in the darkness said to you. I suppose your father and I are going to have to prune out those swamp trees once it freezes back up again—I hadn’t attached any meaning to the winterberry, but if this stranger is right then I have been remiss. Why, back when I was young those bushes used to bear fruit so heavily it was like a band of red all around the house. If we remove the shade they should be bearing again by next winter.” Lara Midwinter shifted the bassinet to her other arm and sighed. Summer was getting so heavy! Her eldest brother Danny—well, eldest here, with Sam away in college—was picking out a rosary from the gift shop’s selection and then she was going to saddle him with Summer. Ronnie was in there too but he seemed to be there just to talk. Even if he wasn’t saying anything at the moment. “I remember when I was a baby I used to have one of these.” Dan said abruptly to Ronnie, looking at a decade-rosary. “Yeah, I remember when you were a baby too.” said Lara sweetly. Dan rolled his eyes. Even though he was only 13 he stood an inch above Ronnie, thin and serious in the black suit he always wore on days he had to be an altar boy. He had curly sand-colored hair and a half-asleep look, but was capable of carrying on an intelligent conversation with any grown-up. “When she wants to punish me for something she kisses me.” he said in an aside to Ronnie. “Come here.” said Lara, pretending to kiss him. Dan avoided her and rolled his eyes even farther. Ronnie was laughing. “Oh!” she exclaimed abruptly. “I want one of these, I need a new one. You can get me this.” “And you get me one of those St. Christopher medals.” said Dan. “It’s a deal.” said Lara, holding her free hand out to shake. He shook it and then with a straight face held up his two crossed fingers for Ronnie to see. This had the effect of making Ronnie bend double with laughter. Lara glanced at him suspiciously but knew better than to inquire too closely. She paid for her items and then headed off to find Mrs. Midwinter and unload the baby, Dan refusing to be saddled. Her quest successful, she glanced around to see if anyone she knew was still lingering in St. Joseph’s after Mass, when she smelled wood smoke. “Ah, Miss Midwinter, a pleasure to see you.” said the man in the old brown coat. “Oh, hi! Nice to see you again, um…sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.” “It is difficult to forget what you have never learned.” he replied. “Most people seem to call me the man in brown. Brown will do, I suppose.” “All right,” she said, a little mystified. “But why all the caginess with your name? Are you…a fugitive, or something?” “I am neither homeless nor pursued.” he answered. “But I have enemies, and it is best they do not hear that I am active. Tell me, have you mentioned me at all?” “Tell the truth,” said Lara with a rueful laugh, “I’d forgotten all about you. I did hear…a sort of song, a song in the wind, a song about the stars. Does that happen to you?” Brown gave a silent laugh. “Things do not often ‘happen’ to me. Usually it is I who ‘happen’ to others.” Do you believe in ghosts, Lara?” “If you mean the Halloween kind, no.” she said. “Ghosts are either saints or damned.” “Or in Limbo.” said Brown. “If it is permanent, that is, and not a mere offshoot of Purgatory. Did you come to Midnight Mass?” “It was 10:30 Mass.” said Lara tartly. “Ronnie told me one priest always joked that people call the rectory and say, ‘Father…” “ ‘….what time is Midnight Mass?” finished Brown. “Yes, that was Father Blanchfield. I never knew him personally, as he died some years ago, but his sardonic humor drifts in odd places and comes across me at the last. You looked magnificent, I thought, in that dress of shining gold with the lace shawl. You looked indeed like your name.” “Yes, what does Lara mean?” she said quickly. “You said before that it was significant.” “I said that it may have another meaning in a different language, Lara. You know in your heart what it truly means and you do not need me to tell you.” “Then you already know!” “I know that there was a man who had no eyes, he went abroad to view the skies…” “He wouldn’t see very much, would he?” “I have a wee sister, her name is Boo-peep.” Brown replied. “She wades in the waters deep under deep, she climbs up the mountaintops high over high; but poor little creature, she hath but one eye.” “I heard that somewhere…” said Lara slowly. “Isn’t that a riddle?” “Riddles were made to tease men with the truth.” Brown answered as they headed down the aisle and into the vestibule. “Sometimes the truth that they found was not the answer that was given for it. But come, your family is already heading to the van, and I have to get home and make sure my stove is alive. Sumac wood is so undependable, but it was handiest. A happy New Year and a Merry Christmas, Lara.” “Today’s Epiphany.” she said. Epiphany is always on January 6th, for that is Old Christmas and the twelfth day.” Brown said. “You US Catholics are lazy and prefer to lump it over on the weekend, regardless of date. Just as you eliminated the Holy Days’ obligation if it falls on Saturday or Monday. But the Glastonbury Thorn always blooms on Old Christmas, and it ever shall.” Lara turned and headed down the steps to the van, waving a quick goodbye over one shoulder. But the man in brown had gone inside and she did not see him. She had trouble getting to sleep that night. It was cold. Even though she liked the cold, this cold was different. It entered quilt and flannels and chilled both flesh and bone beneath. She sat up, shivering, arms wrapped around her chest, but she was still cold. Gradually as she sat there she grew numb, her flesh no longer quivered, for the cold was in her, she was the cold, and casting back her blankets she leaned on the window and looked out. Dark and hard gleamed the sky of winter high above, and hard and bright and chill the stars stared down upon her. She gazed down at the outside and she was no longer at the window, but somewhere outdoors, in a great hill-field that fell away on all sides save behind. She was unaware of surprise, for she was cold and it was her. Pine woods rose dark and silent on left and right, and in front, some way above her, a mighty crescent-shaped waterfall tumbled in countless silver columns into a great foaming river at the bottom of the valley. The foot of the falls was blocked from her by a wood of strange pines at the base of the field, of which in the night she could see little save their outlines against the bright water. It was unnaturally bright for a night without either moon or stars, shining of itself, white and flashing silver and pearl, as bright as light, in fact it was light, light made liquid and pouring from the falls. She stood now inside the ancient pines, and they smelled sweet and strange and sharp as no pines she had known, for they were cypress and terebinth and others she had never heard of, and they grew in a grove that encircled within it a basin of liquid light, and the glare of it lit the nearest trees dark green and silver-blue, and yews rimmed the shores. Ancient stones so stained with silver light as to be luminous themselves lined the shores, and far below she could see in the clear brightness the basin had for gravel the loveliest white pearls. And among the yews grew laurels that blossomed blue and white and silver, and a silver dew dripped eternally from the black branches of the trees. Now figures were coming down the winding paths among the silver laurels, and they were fashioned like to women and maids of enchanting loveliness, and light was wound into their hair and woven in their dresses, so that even in her cold Lara felt a pang of awe. And other figures in robes that were wove of blue flame and of white were coming from the other direction, figures like men of ancient power, and all of them so mighty and so fair that had Lara been not sheathed within her cold she might very well have died of delight. And every one of the Gods bore in their white hands a pitcher of wrought silver, strange and beautiful of shape as a lily-throat, the metal taking every ray to fall upon it and sending it back tenfold. Then the Gods drew near to the shore of the basin, and like great burning statues they stood upon the shores, and the maids and lords that served them brought forward their burdens and held them to the Gods. And they took seven diamonds that gleamed of themselves, and they took seven pearls from the deepest seas, and they cast them down into the basin of light. Again they reached into the burdens that their servants held for them, and they drew forth air-mists caught in nets of silver filaments, and they drew forth wispy dreams snagged within spiderwebs of dew, and they drew forth vials of bottled cold, the cold of the airless voids, and these they cast in also. A third time they reached into the burdens, and drew out clouds wrapped in nets of fire, and dews collected from the Walls of the World, and flowers whose tissues were of light grown solid and living that had been picked upon the Mountain Above the Worlds, and these too they cast in. Then did the Gods stretch forth their hands, and with rods of silver did they stir the fluid light, and as they stirred so did they sing, and the maidens wept their tears into the pool for the deepness of the beauty of the singing in the language of the Gods, from which was drawn all language of Elf and Mortal Man. Then did the Gods all lean forward, and the Gods dipped their great pitchers into the basin of light, and though not many were the Gods that basin was dry when the last pitcher withdrew. And they stood upon the mountain at the brink of the falls, and as one they raised their silver pitchers and as one did they pour, and as they poured they gave a great cry in that language every syllable of which shook Lara’s bones like thunder. Every stream of glowing substance that poured down into empty air from the mouths of every pitcher hung suspended in the darkness, a cloud of brilliant droplets. Then suddenly every droplet sped apart and expanded, and as it expanded it threw out streamers of misty light like burning gas, and bodies came into being and hair blew from their heads, and armour flamed upon them, and power flashed and sparkled like light about them. Then one of the Gods stepped forward, and she was the most beautiful and glorious of all the women there, and she flung out her hands, and lightning leaped from them into the hearts of every Star. And they leaped erect, and they lived, and they bowed before her and did her homage, and named her Kindler. Then out into the airs they sprang, and suddenly the dim black sky was dusty with new stars. And Lara walked after the Gods as they receded down the hemlock paths above the falls of light, but they were moving too fast and soon their shining forms were gone. She paced on beside the bank of the gleaming river, which flowed out of the ground in a gigantic narrow spring as long as the river was wide, and the new silver-grey dusklight of the Stars made that black forest now a place of pearly shadow. She stood in an open glade where mighty trees rose around her in a ring, and near and bright like airbourne gems the new white Stars gazed down on her, they saw her gazing up to them, and then the Stars began to sing, their cold thin airhearted voices tingling through and through her like glass. Tears of liquid ice trickled down from her frozen eyes and froze upon her pale cheeks as she listened enchanted and unable to move. '' '' Starmaiden starmaiden starhearted starmaiden '' ''Dirlaha dirlaha larahent dirlondo '' ''Starstricken wanderer wandering everfar '' ''near and thar dying from crying and pining away for us '' ''Stars in your eyes dirla '' ''Stars in your heart dorha '' ''starheart now lay you down deep in the underground '' ''far from the stars as you ever could long to be— '' '' Hush! '' ''Lay you down, close your eyes, lay you down. '' Frozen tears formed icicles from Lara’s chin and nose as she stood in a spell from the songs of the stars, and she knew that the cold that had sheathed her from the Gods was not able to sheathe her from the ice-singing stars far above her; they did not mean it, they were maliceless and unheartless but they were cold and merry and they knew they broke men’s hearts. They could not help it. All they could do was to sing into slumber starstricken beholders and watch curiously as they died with stars in their eyes and with stars in their hearts, and there was sadness in their song. She stumbled to her knees and laid her down upon the cold ground, but she was colder than it and felt nothing. She tried to close her eyes but they had frozen open and she could not shut out the strange eyes of the stars that were watching her die… The ground lifted her up and she was moving, she was being carried on great arms down into the trees, and the eyes of the stars were replaced by the eyes of Arheled, who gazed into her frozen lids and down into her frozen heart, and as from an unguessable distance she felt response begin to thaw within her, her eyes begin to melt and heart to beat. Then they stood above the incandescent river and the silver glow of it beat up into the rough face of Arheled, and there were tears in his ancient eyes as his mighty arms heaved and were suddenly no longer underneath of her. She felt sudden terror cracking the crust of the ice on her soul, and then her eyes were filled with silver, they blinked and shut and opened and silver fire was all she could see, and she was wet, and the warmth of that wetness cracked the spell of her cold and thawed into her from without. Dimly she was aware of swimming, of being tumbled like a log and gasping for breath and breathing light as well as water. Then she was able at last to see. She was nearing the brink of the falls of silver light, pouring eternally down into a great crescentine gulf of a valley, which swelled up in steep bulging fields to the grey house of Arheled on a level with her, and then she was falling and light was all around her and then only overhead, shining into her eyes. She blinked. It was the ceiling light in her room. She put out her hands cautiously and felt the solid floorboards. Slowly and warily she sat up. She was no longer cold nor sheathed in cold, but human and warm again. As she got off the floor she observed a stain like luminous water where she had been lying, but it evaporated almost as fast as she noticed it. She felt the boards and they were dry. “Now I know how Forest feels.” she muttered as she climbed back into bed. And this time she was able to sleep. “So, where should we go this week, Bellie my love?” inquired Brooke airily as she got out of the car at Bell’s house. “I’d really rather you girls go to the Baptist church for once.” said Mr. Light, coming out the door pulling on his gloves. It was a bitter January morning and the night had dipped below zero, leaving every tree encrusted in a strange thick silvery frost. The air was breathless and bit when you breathed in. “Oh, Dad! It’s only been two weeks!” said Bell. They had gone to the Episcopalian church last week. “Yeah, well the pastor’s going to notice.” “I can tell him I ''have been to church.” Hunter Light rolled his eyes and gave Bell a kiss. “You aren’t the one who has to listen to him.” “We’ll go to Old Baptist, then.” said Brooke. “You know, 1st Church of Christ.” “Fine by me.” sighed Mr. Light, getting into his car. “But next Sunday she rides with me, okay? I’m getting lonely.” “Oh, Dad.” said Bell affectionately. When they were safely underway Brooke asked, “So, like, where is your mom? I never see her.” “I don’t either.” said Bell shortly. “Uh-oh. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” “She left Dad years ago.” replied Bell. “It’s all right. I stopped being bitter about it a while back.” “It’s never all right.” Brooke answered earnestly. “Down inside, you still miss her and you hate her at the same time, and you blame yourself and wish you’d behaved better, and sometimes you blame Dad for not stopping her or driving her away.” “Your parents divorced, too?” Brooke was pensive. “They came close one time.” “Oh.” Bell fell silent. “Did you notice anything about St. James?” Brooke asked. “It’s dead.” Bell answered. “It feels like a tomb. There’s one odd window—all the others are brilliant, but that one was pale, all whites and greys. And the niche out front was empty.” “''Come down and play.” muttered Brooke. “What could that possibly mean?” “Maybe Old Baptist will make more sense.” Winsted was cold and brilliant in the strong winter sun. Brooke parked on the street and the girls hopped a snowbank and headed up the shovelled paths. Bell walked slowly, taking in every detail: she hadn’t been here in years. She looked at the double towers, one open and square and supported by four columns; the other circular, the belfry tower above it, with the high round arches and the red stone trim. “Brooke,” she said, pointing to the belfry, “look at that.” “At what?” “There,” said Bell. “Under the rim of the peak there. Above the arches. See those funny stone inserts?” The summit of the belfry was a conical steeple, with a rim of red sandstone running around its’ base. Set into the grey rock beneath this were pendant decorations, four vertical poles with thicker square ends like mallet heads at the bottom, then two slanted bars angled away from each other with level squares at their lower ends. Like the clappers on a bell. Four pendant alternated with two swinging, all the way around, to form a total of sixteen pendant and eight swinging clappers. “They look just like hammers.” said Brooke. '' “Hammers and urns, say the bells of 1st Church…” said Bell. “I wonder…they might be the ones to '' smite on the heavens.” '' “Until they are broken.” Brooke agreed. They went inside. Bell barely remembered it; she’d been little the last time they went here. The red cushions made her smile, reminding her of her own church. It was much larger than hers. Close to a hundred people were seated in the carved pews, the same warm gold as the Methodist church, arranged in a semicircle rising toward the back. Typical Protestant theater construction. Three aisles divided them, carpeted deep red, but under the pews was ancient wood flooring. On the left above square-panelled wainscot was a deep alcove with a gold-piped organ. Under this the choir sat in a crescent of blue chairs, robed in magnificent red vestments with a V of white extending down the chest. On the right were the huge double partitions and an arched green marble plaque in memory of somebody named Charles Beecher Holmes. The sanctuary was carpeted the same as the aisles, with three steps up to it. It held a flat slab altar of unadorned wood like a table, a carved gold font to the left, two candles with a gold cross between them, a purple cloth with gold-yellow fringe under the cross. At the back were five carved chairs of dark wood against a paneled wall. Five stained glass windows—looking like they were painted—opened above this, the center showing Jesus alone over a table. At least, Bell assumed it was Jesus as he was wearing typical Apostle robes, but he had a fair, almost effeminate face. The other windows bore a collonaded pattern. The woodwork of the high wall opened at the top of three peaks in a curious design, carved like three erupting teardrops with a fourth drop erect behind them. The ceiling was different from her church as well; two great arched ribs crossed the entire dome, creamy-white with water stains. A big gallery curved around the back of the church, above it a deep-green window of Jarius’ daughter that Bell remembered liking the color of. Announcements were solicited from the congregation. Bell was a little nervous when little old ladies and men kept coming up and shaking their hands, but she was getting used to it. The minister was stocky and youngish with foxy-style long hair, sandy brown, that came over his ears, a short beard and mustache, glasses and a ruddy face above his black cassock. Partway through four girls went up back where they waited, whispering and giggling, until a beaming woman got up and stood in the center aisle and they began bustling around with collection plates. They wore the usual tight jeans that seemed to pass for Sunday wear; Bell was a little more dressed herself. After service Bell and Brooke were heading through the partitions to get cookies. Brooke had recognized one or two people she knew and Bell pushed on ahead. The room was crowded. She noticed a head of lovely curled gold hair among the groups of people talking and squeezed by to get at the table. In doing so she caught a glimpse of the woman’s face. Brooke came after her and found Bell standing frozen, staring at a group of people ten feet away. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Brooke, we have to go.” said Bell in a strangled voice. “What? But I thought you wanted cookies!” “I have to get out of here.” Bell insisted. Brooke followed, seriously disturbed now, as Bell rushed back into the church and out into the main vestibule. Crooked neat stairs twisted up to the gallery and down into the basement, and blindly shoving open the little ornamental gates at the head of the stairs Bell hurried down them. The tight spiral and peculiar balustrade combined to lend an air of mystery that Brooke felt keenly as she followed. Underground were halls with old-yellow pipes along the ceiling, dark green doors, walls that once were white but had yellowed with age. It was like a catacomb. Bell came to a stop and leaned her head on one of the door frames. To Brooke’s alarm the eleven-year-old burst into tears. “Bell! Bell, honey, what’s wrong?” Brooke cried. Bell lifted a face travelled with tearstains. “That was my mother.” she choked. “My mom! All these years and she’s been right here, just across town, and she never comes!” She broke into fresh weeping. “I '' hate'' her! She left me! I hate her!” “It’s all right, honey.” said Brooke softly as she put her arms around her friend. The little girl buried her face in Brooke’s bosom and bawled. And Brooke felt tears come into her own eyes. When Bell’s sobs had died down and calmed, Brooke wiped her friend’s eyes and helped her bundle back up. “It’s all right, Bell.” she said again. “We can go now.” “I don’t ever want to come here again.” sniffled Bell as she allowed Brooke to take her hand.